- 


7T 


Songs  of  the  Streets 
and  Byways 


By 

William    Herschell 


Illustrated  With   Photographs 


Indianapolis 

The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 
Publishers 


Copyright,  1915 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


To   a    Comrade   Asleep 
MY  FATHER 

This  little  volume  is 
affectionately  dedicated 


2051980 


AND  NOW  IT  IS  REVEALED  UNTO  YOU— 

Friends,  whom  the  author  esteems  as 
genuine,  said:  "Why  don't  you  put  them 
into  a  book?" 

Acquaintances  added  a  handclasp  to  their 
declarations  that  they  liked  my  verses  be- 
cause they  were  "so  human." 

A  little  boy  telephoned  on  occasional 
Saturday  evenings  and  said:  "I  liked  to- 
day's best  of  all." 

And  I  like  some  of  them  myself. 

Out  of  it  all  has  grown  this  simple  volume 
composed  of  verses  printed  in  The  Indian- 
apolis News  under  the  captions  of  "Songs  of 
the  City  Streets"  and  "Ballads  of  the  By- 
ways." 

The  Author 


CONTENTS 

THE  EXILES 1 

Two  MEN  OF  THE  ROAD 5 

TIMOTHY  MACKESSY,  COP  NUMBER  ONE       ...      8 

THE    SHOW    PARADE .11 

MATRIMONY  A  LA  CARTE  .        .        .        .        .        .14 

THE  DOWN-TRAIN  TO  MADISON       .        .        .        .        .17 

THE  OLD  RED  PUMP  ON  THE  CORNER       .        .        .        .21 

"WISH    You    WAS    HERE"        .        .        .  .    ...        .        .    24 

THE  HOUSE  OF  WHERE      ^       .        .  .        .        .28 

His  FIRST  POCKETS    .        .        .        *  .        .        .31 

WHEN  "20"  COMES  INTO  THE  YARDS       .        .        .        .34 

UP  ALONG  THE  RIVER        .        .        .        .        .        .        .37 

HOLLYHOCKS        .        .        ,        .        .        .        ,-...•     .41 
UM-M-M!  UM-M-M  !  PASS  'EM  TO  ME!          ,        .        .45 

THE  OLD  GREEN  SASH 47 

FETCHING  HOME  THE  Cows       .        .        .        ...    49 

SCHOOL'S   OUT   AT    SHORTRIDGE 53 

THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  LONESOME  GRAY          .        .        .57 

"GlT-EP!"  ".  .  .  .  .  .  .         '.  -61 

THE  CIRCUS  WAGON'S  RUMBLE        .        .        .        .        .64 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  GAME        .        ...        .        .68 

THE  URCHIN  AND  THE  LILY  72 


CONTENTS 

.     75 
LONGINGS  AND  LIMITATIONS      . 

.    79 
THE  VOCALIZING  VULCANS 

.    83 
THE  MUDDLED  MODES 

.    88 
MOTHER'S   DAY  . 

,  .    92 

HOWDY,  MISTAH  PUNKIN! 

.    95 
A  CREEKSIDE  COMEDY 

.    98 
SANTA   CLAUS   DAYS 

THANKSGIVIN'    PUNKIN    PIE 

1  f\O 

THE  WONDERFUL  LAND  OF  SEE 

1  f\c 

LITTLE  LADY  TRINKLECAN 

WHEN  YOU'VE  BEEN  AWAY  A  WHILE      .        -        •        •  1( 

113 
THE  MOP  MARYS 

1 1  A 

THE  OLD  HIGH  CHAIR 

1 20 

GOOD  OLD  MISTER  BOBSLED        .... 

12^ 

THE  HANDICAP  OF  RICHES 

AN   EARLY   AUTUMN   LULLABY 124 

THE  PLUGGER 126 

AUTUMN  ON  THE  TOWPATH 128 

IN  THE  BACK-LOT  LEAGUE 132 

THAT    FELLOW 

THE  OLD  TRACK  GANG 138 

THE  WATER  CURE      .  143 

THE  GIRLS  OF  FIVE-MINUTES-TO-EIGHT  .        .        .147 


SONGS     OF     THE     STREETS 
AND     BYWAYS 


THE  EXILES 

T  T  7E'VE  got  to  leave  the  old  home,  wife, 

Be  exiles,  you  and  I ; 
To  these  broad  fields  we've  loved  so  long 

We've  got  to  say  good-by. 
The  old  farm  doesn't  need  us  now; 

It  only  laughs,  my  mate, 
At  us  two  poor,  old-fashioned  folks 

Since  it's  got  up-to-date. 
It  used  to  be  dependent,  dear, 

On  these  old  hands  of  ours; 
Mine  to  tend  its  grain  and  grass, 

Yours  its  fruit  and  flowers. 
For  when  we  came  and  settled  here, 

And  knew  life's  hardest  bumps, 
This  big,  swell-headed  farm  of  ours 

Grew  nothing  else  but  stumps. 


THE    EXILES 

Then — then  there  came  that  luckless  time, 

That  sad,  ill-omened  day 
We  brought  our  first  self-binder  home 

And  threw  the  scythe  away. 
And  ever  since  that  time,  Louise, 

We've  squandered  all  our  means 
To  give  this  farm  its  swinging  gates 

And  patent-right  machines. 
Alas! — for  our  indulgence,  dear— 

We're  banished  into  town, 
Though  we  had  hoped  that  here 

We'd  see  life's  golden  sun  go  down. 
The  old  place — how  we've  loved  it — 

Doesn't  need  us  any  more 
Since  automatic  hands  perform 

The  tasks  we  did  of  yore. 


THEEXILES  3 

The  windmill  pumps  the  water  now; 

It  churns  the  butter,  too, 
And  incubators  do  the  work 

Your  old  hens  used  to  do. 
A  motor  grinds  the  cattle  feed ; 

It  likewise  shears  the  sheep 
That  patent  locks  protect  at  night 

When  they  lie  down  to  sleep. 
The  rural-route  man  brings  the  mail 

And  leaves  it  at  the  door, 
Thus  making  void  my  last  excuse 

To  loaf  down  at  the  store. 
The  trolley  brings  the  groceries — 

We  phone  for  them,  you  know — 
And  parlor  films  have  made  our  home 

A  moving-picture  show. 


4  TH  E    EXI  LES 

The  shredder  shreds  the  corn  and  me, 

The  rail  fence  now  is  wire, 
And  some  one's  sold  you  some  new  scheme 

To  cook  without  a  fire. 
We  light  the  house  with  tanked-up  gas, 

It  lights  the  big  barn,  too, 
And  threshing-time  has  lost  its  charm 

With  salaried  boss  and  crew. 
Machinery  cuts  and  loads  the  hay, 

Then  stows  it  in  the  mow, 
And — last  and  worst — they've  found  a  way 

To  patent-milk  the  cow. 
So  come,  let's  journey  townward,  dear, 

We're  laid  upon  the  shelf— 
The  old  farm's  got  so  dog-goned  smart 

That  it  can  run  itself! 


TWO  MEN  OF  THE  ROAD 


'T^VVO  men  there  were  whose  journey  lay 

Down  green,  tree-bordered  paths  to-day, 
But  one  had  eyes  that  would  not  see 

The  wayside's  art-divinity. 
He  thought  but  of  the  motor's  grind, 

Of  clouded  miles  he'd  leave  behind; 
He  had  no  mission  save  to  say 

He'd  gone  so  many  miles  to-day. 
The  beauty  of  the  woodland's  dress 

To  him  was  hazy  nothingness. 
Just  once  a  grim  smile  lit  his  face— 

A  fool-bird  dared  to  set  him  pace! 
A  fool-bird  —  poor,  misguided  wight- 

Dared  taunt  him  to  a  test  of  flight. 
Thus  on  and  on  he  blithely  sped, 

His  only  goal  —  the  miles  ahead! 


6          TWO    MEN    OF    THE    ROAD 

He  did  not  see  beside  the  road 

Another  man  who  calmly  strode 
Amid  the  shade  of  glade  and  glen, 

Then  back  into  the  road  again. 
He  did  not  see  the  old  man's  eyes 

Grow  glad  and  twinkle  with  surprise 
When  out  there  hopped  a  friendly  toad 

To  blink  at  him  across  the  road. 
He  did  not  near  Bob  White's  refrain 

Come  echoing  from  down  the  lane ; 
He  did  not  catch  the  plowboy's  yell 

Of  welcome  to  the  dinner  bell. 
He  did  not  hear  the  old  man  sigh 

In  pity  as  he  hurried  by- 
He  did  not  see  him  stoop  to  get 

God's  sweetest  thing — a  violet! 


TIMOTHY    MACKESSY 
Cop  Number  One 

TIMOTHY  MACKESSY,  Cop  Num- 
ber One! 

Good-natured,  round- f atured  son  of  a  gun! 
Always  a-smilin',  at  fri'nd  an'  foe— 
If  the  last  named  he's  anny,  not  one  do  I 

know. 
Old  folks  an'  young  folks,  the  fat  ones  an' 

slim 
Shout  whin  they  see  him:  "Begorra,  there's 

Tim!" 

All  of  thim  like  him,  this  rev'ler  in  fun- 
Timothy  Mackessy,  Cop  Number  One! 

Timothy  Mackessy,  Cop  Number  One! 
It's  more  good  than  harm  our  Timothy's 
done. 

8 


10  TIMOTHY     MACKESSY 

Down  by  the  depot  with  smiles  on  his  face 
He  p'ints  all  the  strangers  to  Monument 

Place. 

He  hunts  all  the  babies  the  mothers  have  lost 
An'  holds  up  the  cyars  till  the  ladies  have 

crossed. 
It's  only  the  blackgyards  that  Timmy  will 

shun— 
Timothy  Mackessy,  Cop  Number  One! 

Timothy  Mackessy,  Cop  Number  One! 
D'aler  in  jokes  that  are  all  Irish  spun. 
He  bosses  the  Tunnel  an'  calls  it  his  cave 

An'  says  whin  he  dies,  shure  he'll  make  it  his 
grave. 

But  thim  that  knows  Timmy  just  laugh  an' 
reply : 

"Begorra,  Tim,  lad,  you're  too  jov'al  to  die!" 
So  live  on  forever,  Apostle  of  Fun- 
Timothy  Mackessy,  Cop  Number  One! 


THE  SHOW  PARADE 

YOUTH  came  back  to  my  door  to-day, 
Youth,  the  fugitive;  Youth,  the  gay, 

Came  with  smiles  and  a  twinkling  eye, 
Bringing  me  dreams  of  days  gone  by. 

It  called  me  out  to  a  wayside  street 
Where  children,  merry  as  they  were  sweet, 

Bade  me  witness — and  I  obeyed— 

Their  "grandly  marvelous  show  parade!" 

And  then  there  passed  in  gay  review 
Three  little  girls  and  Rummy,  too; 

Rummy,  the  dog,  the  friend,  the  clown, 
With  sunbonnet  on,  but  upside  down; 

Wagons  and  buggies  and  boxes  tied 
With  Tabbies  and  dolls  and  toys  inside. 

Truly  a  picture  to  start  the  flow 

Of  tear-brewed  dreams  of  a  long  ago. 


11 


12  THE    SHOW    PARADE 

Now,  through  the  mist  of  bygone  years, 
Our  old  barn-lot  and  its  show  appears. 

I  see,  in  fancy,  bright  quilt  tepees, 
Rag-carpet  tents  and  a  broom  trapeze. 

I  hear  old  Skeeter,  my  fellow  clown, 
Wail  at  my  painting  his  eyelids  brown. 

It  broke  up  the  show — and  I  got  mine!— 
For  the  paint  we  used  was  iodine! 

But  that  was  part  of  the  show,  you  see, 
Of  Red  and  Skeeter  and  Sis  and  Me; 

Part  of  the  tortures  suffered  then 
That  all,  I  know,  would  bear  again 

Could  we,  once  more,  go  back  and  play 
Saturday  circus — but,  here,  well,  say, 

Children,  forgive  me,  for  I've  delayed 
With  Yesterday's  dreams  To-day's  parade! 


MATRIMONY  A  LA  CARTE 

A  LADY  ees  come  to  my  cart, 
Wheech  standa  een  da  street, 
She  buy  banan'  an'  evratheeng 

So  gooda  an'  so  sweet! 
On  Market  day  she  always  come 

An'  we  mak'  friendla  fun 
'Bout  w'at  I  do  w'en  I  geet  reech 

An'  gotta  plenta  mon'. 
She  say:  "I  bet  you  some  day,  Mike, 

W'en  you  ees  wealtha  man, 
You  geeta  stuck  on  pooty  girl 

Wheech  ees  a  'Merican." 
But  I  say:  "No,  you  mak'  mistak', 

Dat  theeng  can  nevra  be, 
Eef  I  am  gon'  for  geet  a  wife 

She  come  from  Eetaly!" 
Den  she  ees  look  so  mad  an'  say: 

"Poor  Mike,  you  foolish  guy, 
You  should  have  wife  bak'  Bosta'  bean 

An'  mak'  you  gooda  pie!" 

14 


16       MATRIMONY    A    LA    CARTE 

I  say:  "My  goodness,  how  you  talk, 

So  pooty  an'  so  swell, 
You  sounda  like  you  leeve  yourself 

Een  granda,  beeg  hotel!" 
She  say:  "Aw,  w'at's  a  matta  you? 

You  mak'  me  sucha  seeck; 
Wen  'Merican  got  bumma  cook 

He  mak'  wan  louda  keeck. 
Een  deesa  countra  life  ees  sweet 

An'  we  want  queeck  for  diz 
Eef  on  da  table  eet  ees  not 

Some  Bosta'  bean  an'  pie!1' 
My,  my,  she  got  me  sucha  bluff 

I  not  know  w'at  to  say, 
But  I  am  feex  for  her  nex'  time 

She  come  on  Market  day. 
I  say:  "Go  'way,  you  'Mericans, 

You  can  no  cook  I  bet, 
So  sweet,  so  good,  like  Dago  girls, 

Eyetalian  spaghett'!" 


THE  DOWN-TRAIN  TO  MADISON 

T'VE  been  as  far  east  as  Altoony; 

-••     my  west  mark,  1  think,  is  K.  C., 

But  distance  ain't  been  my  ambition- 
just  leave  out  globe-trottin'  fer  me. 

I'll  let  you  ride  'round  in  th'  Pullmans 
an'  revel  in  dinin'  car  fare— 

Th'  Down-train  to  Madison's  my  train— 
I'll  do  all  my  travelin'  there! 

You    ain't    been,    you    say?     Well,    you've 
missed  it  an'  ought  to  go  soon  as  you  can, 

That  is,  if  you're  not  in  a  hurry  an'  live 
on  th'  sociable  plan. 

Th'  Down-train  goes  down  in  th'  mornin', 
a-weekdays  an'  Sundays  as  well ; 

Th'   Up-train  comes  back  in  th'  evenin'- 
but  here's  what  I'm  tryin'  to  tell; 


17 


18          THE   DOWN-TRAIN    TO    MADISON 

Th'  Down-train's  the  Neighborly  Special, 

unmarred  by  luxurious  frill, 
It  gathers  up  folks  from  Columbus 

clear  down  to  old  Madison  Hill. 
They  git  on  at  'Liztown  an'  Hege, 

at  Scipio,  Vernon  an'  Wirt; 
They  hop  'er  at  Queensville  an'  Grayford, 

but  nobody  ever  gits  hurt. 

It's  just  like  a  family  reunion 

to  board  th'  old  Madison  train; 
You'll  meet  up  with  comrades  an'  kinfolks, 

you'll  chuckle  at  sweetheart  an'  swain. 
Bill  Moody  will  git  on  at  Dupont 

an'  joke  at  old  'Zekiel  York 
'Bout  bein'  so  crooked  he  reckons 

that  Zeke'll  git  off  at  th'  Fork. 
Then  Zeke  will  git  back  at  Bill's  jokin' 

an'  make  th'  suggestion  that  Bill 


20         THE   DOWN-TRAIN   TO   MADISON 

Ain't  one-half  as  straight  as  th'  roundhouse 
that  stands  on  old  Madison  Hill. 

Here  neighbor  says  "Howdy"  to  neighbor, 

then  turns  th'  seat  over  so's  he 
Can  talk  of  th'  crops  an'  th'  weather 

an'  how  times  are  likely  to  be. 
Th'  Down-train  is  Fellership's  agent, 

a  trait  to  be  truly  admired; 
Th'  Up-train  comes  back  in  th'  evenin' 

when  every  one's  hungry  an'  tired. 
An'    so    it's    th'    Down-train    I    sing    of — 

repellin'  all  worry  an'  strife— 
A  symbol  of  Youth,  you  might  call  it, 

that  runs  through  th'  Mornin'  of  Life. 


THE  OLD  RED  PUMP  ON  THE 
CORNER 


Red  Pump  on  the  Corner! 

Here's  to  your  matchless  brew; 
You  with  a  job  like  a  woman's— 

Never  an  end  in  view. 
Morning  and  noon  and  evening 

Your  arm  extends  to  greet 
The  tired  and  thirsty  thousands 

Of  the  hot  and  dusty  street. 
Friend  of  both  prig  and  prelate 

Foe  not  to  race  or  creed, 
Yours  is  a  holy  mission- 

To  give  men  the  drink  they  need. 

See  how  they  come  as  pilgrims 

Seeking  an  ancient  shrine, 

Grasping  your  cup  like  bibbers 

Famished  for  favorite  wine 

21 


Merchant,  fireman  and  newsboy; 

Motorman,  darky  and  drone 
Draw  on  your  cooling  treasure 

As  if  each  drop  were  his  own. 
Some  of  your  friends  are  palsied, 

Some  of  them  blind  and  old, 
But  each  finds  joy  and  vigor 

In  your  draught  so  clear  and  cold. 


THE  OLD  RED  PUMP  ON  THE  CORNER     23 

Old  Red  Pump  on  the  Corner! 

Of  woes  you  have  your  share; 
They  say  you  gather  microbes 

And  spread  them  everywhere. 
Of  course  we  know  grim  Science 

Must  view  you  with  alarm 
And  make  you  seem  a  menace 

Devoid  of  worth  or  charm. 
But  we  of  humbler  learning 

Find,  when  the  day  is  hot, 
You  may  be  germ-prolific, 

But,  Pump,  how  you  hit  the  spot! 


G 


"WISH  YOU  WAS  HERE" 

OT  a  card  from  Steve  this  mornin', 

Dog-gone  his  trav'lin'  skin, 
He's  up  around  Niag'ry  Falls 

A-writin'  home  ag'in. 
Seems  like  that  boy's  one  glory 

Is  wand'rin'  fur  an'  free, 
An'  furder  off  he  gits,  I  gosh, 

Th'  more  he  writes  to  me. 
He  sends  these  pictur'  postal  cards, 

With  photos  showin'  that 
Th'  world  is  allus  beautif'lest 

Where  you  ain't  livin'  at. 
His  messages  reads  all  th'  same— 

In  letters  large  an'  clear 
He  writes  from   Maine  or   Kankakee   an' 
says — 

"Wish  you  was  herel" 


26       "WISH   YOU   WAS   HERE" 

Nobody  ever  seems  to  know 

Just  when  he'll  go  er  where; 
We  git  his  destination 

From  th'  card  that  says  he's  there. 
An'  he  ain't  more  than  settled  down 

To  loaf  a  day  or  two 
Till  he  gits  thinkin'  up  th'  names 

Of  ever'  one  he  knew. 
An'  then  with  ever'  dog-gone  cent 

He  possibly  kin  spare 
He  buys  th'  Unitary  church, 

Th'  Depot  an'  th'  Square. 
He  buys  'bout  ever'thing  they  is 

In  Bath  er  Belvidere, 

Then  mails  th'  whole  blame  business  home 
an'  says— 

"Wish  you  was  here!" 


"WISH     YOU     WAS    HERE"          27 

I  guess  he's  at  Niag'ry  now — 

He  was  last  time  he  wrote — 
But  that  don't  prove  conclusively 

He  ain't  in  Terry  Hote. 
He  may  be  down  in  Panama 

Er  snoopin'  'round  in  Nome, 
Nobody  knows  just  where  he's  at— 

Except  he  ain't  at  home! 
I  guess  we'd  never  hear  from  him 

Fer  months  er  mebbe  years 
If  some  kind  soul  had  not  devised 

These  pictur'  souvenirs. 
Yes,  I  expect  if  Steve  would  die 

He'd  rise  up  from  his  bier 
To  pen  a  card  to  all  his  friends  an'  say— 

"Wish  you  was  here!" 


THE  HOUSE  OF  WHERE 

T)ESIDE  the  winding  Friendswood  road 
^^  A  house  of  weathered  gray 

Stands  tenantless  as  Eden's  realm 

Since  Adam  moved  away. 
The  old  house  makes  me  Fancy's  toy 

And  thoughts,  unguarded,  play 
At  wondering  who  abided  there 

And  where  they  are  to-day. 
It  is,  in  fact,  a  House  of  Where; 

Strange  voices  seem  to  say: 
"O  where's  the  cheer  of  yesteryear? 

The  children,  where  are  they?" 

The  gate,  weed-throttled,  silent  stands, 
Its  creak  has  lost  its  thrill. 

The  fence  has  fallen  in  decay 

And  tumbled  down  the  hill. 

28 


Its  pickets  bear  no  sunning  crocks, 

The  groaning  pump  is  still, 
No  voices  echo  from  the  barn 

"Gee-hawing"  Bob  and  Bill. 
No  mother  voice  sounds  noontime's  call 

To  "Come  and  get  your  fill"- 
There's  naught  but  silence — everywhere ! 

Monotonous  and  chill- 


30         THE      HOUSE      OF      WHERE 

The  trees,  old  comrades  left  behind, 

Cast  forth  a  useless  shade; 
They  seem  to  wreathe  in  gloom  the  place 

Where  once  glad  children  played. 
Where  are  the  little  pilgrims  now? 

Where  have  their  footsteps  strayed? 
Where  has  the  mother  of  the  brood 

New  habitation  made? 
No  answer  comes — but  Heaven  grant 

The  changes  they've  essayed 
Have  led  them  to  still  brighter  paths, 

With  spirit  unafraid. 


HIS  FIRST  POCKETS 

T'M  got  pockets!    1st  like  man's— 

One  for  bofe  of  my  two  ban's! 
One  for  pennies  when  I'm  good 

Like  my  muvver  says  I  should ; 
One  for  cookies — yes,  an'  say, 

I  had  shoc'late  drops  to-day; 
Had  'em  in  my  pockets  where 

They  ain't  got  no  business  there, 
'Cause  they  shoc'late  up  my  pants 

If  they  git  a  half  a  chance. 
'Nen  my  muvver  laugh  and  say 

What's  they  made  for  anyway? 
Ain't  they  made  for  boys  to  eat?— 

Li'l  boys  'at's  good  an'  sweet? 
'Specially  th'  kind  'at  grows 

Up  wif  pockets  in  their  clo'es! 


32  HIS    FIRST    POCKETS 

Daddy  he's  got  pockets,  too, 

1st  like  all  us  mans's  do, 
Still  he  says  it's  funny,  though, 

Where  his  pennies  all  time  go. 
'Nen  my  muvver  she  ist  play 

Like  she  don't  hear  what  he  say; 
'Nen  he  says  well  he  suppose 

Burg-u-lars  been  in  his  clo'es. 
'Nen  I  say  I  spec'  they  do 

An'  he  says  he  knows  'em,  too, 
But  he  don't — 'cause  muvver  she 

Says  he  puts  'em  there  for  me. 
Muvver  she — it  don't  seem  fair— 

Ain't  got  pockets  anywhere. 
But  she  says,  gee,  ain't  it  fine?— 

She  kin  keep  her  things  in  mine! 


WHEN  "20"  COMES  INTO  THE 
YARDS 

^  I  ^HE  levers  click  up  in  the  tower, 

The  semaphore's  arm  changes,  too; 
The  yard  shanty  clock  points  the  hour 
When  old  "Number  20"  is  due. 

From  out  of  the  west  comes  a  rumble, 
The  switch  engines  sneak  from  the  main, 

Forsaking  toil  slavish  and  humble 
To  clear  for  the  limited  train. 

It's  "20"  that's  coming— old  "20"- 
Proud  bearer  of  men  and  of  mail; 

The  symbol  of  speed  and  of  plenty, 
A  queen  of  the  caravan  trail. 


36    WHEN  "20"  COMES  INTO  THE  YARDS 

The  tower  man  out  at  the  Crossing 
Stands  fast  by  his  levers  and  smiles 

As  smoke  clouds,  with  turbulent  tossing, 
Go  trailing  old  "20"  for  miles. 

He  signals  down  into  the  city 
That  "20"  has  passed  on  her  way, 

Then  whistles  some  lighthearted  ditty — 
She's  "by''  without  any  delay! 

O'er  subway,  past  shanty  and  siding, 
The  wheels  whirr  in  musical  chime, 

As  down  through  the  yards  she  goes  gliding 
And  enters  the  station  on  time! 

Unmindful  of  joy  or  of  sorrow 
Old  "20"  speeds  east  on  her  run, 

Then  turns  and — re-christened — to-morrow 
Comes  westward  as  old  "21." 


UP  ALONG  THE  RIVER 

T  TP  along  the  river! 
^-^  What  a  wealth  of  beauty  lies 

In  its  rippling  panorama 

Of  the  cloud-fantastic  skies. 
Here  a  castle,  there  a  city 

Mirrored  up  to  boat  and  shore, 
Just  to  taunt  my  June-day  fancies, 

Then  to  vanish  evermore. 
Now  a  willow  dips  its  laces 

In  the  warm,  dream-hazy  tide, 
As  a  dark  tadpole  flotilla 

Scurries  off  somewhere  to  hide. 
Then  I  hear  a  flap  of  canvas 

And  the  swish  of  waters  rent 
By  a  craft,  lone-manned,  but  freighted 

With  a  cargo  of  content. 


37 


38  UP    ALONG    THE    RIVER 

And  I  catch  my  own  sea-envies 

Rising  up  to  wish  that  I 

Were  the  skipper  and  the  cargo 

Of  that  ship  a-sailing  by- 

Up  along  the  river! 

What  a  joy  it  is  to  be 
Where  the  deepest  gloom  that  haunts  you 

Is  the  shadow  of  a  tree; 
Where  the  greatest  tide  that  thrills  you 

Is  a  river  flowing  by 
And  its  ripples  dancing  tangoes 

With  a  cloud  rift  in  the  sky. 
Dear  old  Fancy! 
How  you  lure  me  into  June-green  paths 

to-day- 
Paths  that  lead  along  the  river— 

Up  the  river  far  away! 


40          UP      ALONG      THE      RIVER 

There  are  boats,  too— and  companions — 

In  this  panorama  rare, 
And  the  only  joy  that's  missing 

Is  the  joy  of  being  there. 
For  I — like  legion  others 

In  the  city's  thrall  to-day 
Can  only  dream  I'm  up  there— 

Up  the  river  far  away! 


HOLLYHOCKS 

AY  HOLLYHOCKS,  who  gave  you 

Such  an  unromantic  name? 
One  held  among  the  humblest 

In  the  garden's  hall  of  fame. 
Who  fixed  your  floral  status 

So  that  you  must  hide  your  face 
At  kitchen  doors,  by  backyard  fence, 

Or  other  lonely  place? 

You  seem,  somehow,  a  mystery, 

And  yet  your  magic  bloom 
Makes  pageantry  of  poverty 

And  gives  a  glow  to  gloom. 
You  bring  a  beam  to  ashmen's  eyes 

And  all  the  alley  clan 
Tiptoes  to  get  a  glimpse  of  you 

And  your  glad  caravan. 


41 


42 

Why  don't  you  march  right  out  in  front 

And  let  your  blooms  compete 
With  all  the  summer's  pampered  pets, 

The  garden's  gay  elite? 
Bid  each  hue-neutral  passer-by 

To  take  an  honest  view, 
Then  say  which  plant-aristocrat 

Has  fairer  tints  than  you. 

Parade  your  pink  and  yellow  hues, 

Stand  forth  in  white  and  red, 
Then  show  with  what  fine  majesty 

You  lift  your  queenly  head. 
Sway  back  and  forth  across  the  breeze 

Where  rose  and  dahlia  reign, 
Till  newborn  envy  shall  supplant 

Their  previous  disdain. 

And  yet  you  seem  divinely  sent 

To  blossom  where  you  do— 


44  HOLLYHOCKS 

Where  men  of  humble  walk  must  pass 
And  need  such  joys  as  you. 

So,  Hollyhocks,  reign  on,  reign  on 

By  backyard   fence  and   door 

That  smiles  may  glowingly  abide 

Where  shadows  dwelt  before. 


UM-M-M!      UM-M-M!      PASS     'EM 
TO  ME! 


mawnin',  Mistah  Meat  Man! 

Whut's  dat  Ah  heah  yo'  say? 
Yo'  got  some  classic  livah 

To  tempt  me  wif  to-day? 
Well,  Ah  doan'  want  no  livah 

An'  Ah  doan'  want  no  lamb  ; 
Ma  eyes  am  shut  to  pohk  chops 

An'  Ah  ain'  a-huntin'  ham. 
Cross  off  ma  name  fo'  chicken, 

Put  sausage  out  o'  sight, 
Den  please  inscribe  ma  ordah 

Fo'  some  Cullud  Folks'  Delight. 
Cut  off  a  nice,  big  chunk  uv— 

Yo'  know  whut  April  means  — 
Ah  wants  a  slab  o'  bacon 

Fo'  ma  dandelion  greens! 
Um-m-m!  Um-m-m!  Pass  'em  to  me! 

45 


46   UM-M-M!  UM-M-M!  PASS  'EM  TO  ME! 

Dis  mawnin'  when  de  dewdrops 

Was  a-rasslin'  wif  de  sun 
Ah  ketched  ma  lips  a-smackin' 

Lak  dey  want  to  hab  some  fun. 
So  Ah  gethahs  up  ma  basket 

An'  goes  singin'  sof  an'  low 
To  de  commons  down  by  Fall  Creek 

Whah  de  dandelions  grow. 
Den  ma  ole  case  knife  went  diggin' 

In  de  Providential  soil 
Till  ma  eahs  dey  got  to  itchin' 

Fo'  to  heah  dem  sizz  an'  boil. 
So  cut  me  off  some  hog  meat— 

Yo'  know  whut  April  means— 
Ah  wants  a  slab  o'  bacon 

Fo'  ma  dandelion  greens! 
Um-m-m!  Um-m-m!  Pass 'em  to  me! 


THE  OLD  GREEN  SASH 

T^ETCH  me  ould  green  sash,  Ann  Dugan, 
•*•     Place  it  with  me  Sunday  clo'es, 
There  besoide  me  sprig  av  shamrock 

Sent  from  where  th'  shamrock  grows. 

Press  th'  wrinkles  from  me  sash,  Ann, 
Make  it  so's  th'  folds  will  lay 

Close  upon  th'  breast  thot  loves  it, 

Wears,  it,  too,  S'int  Pathrick's  day. 

I'm  t'  roide  a  horse,  mavourneen, 
Up  where  all  th'  world  can  see 

How  me  heart  still  clings  to  Erin, 
Land  av  our  nativity. 

Oh,  ye'll  be  thot  proud,  Ann  Dugan, 
Whin  ye  see  me  prancin'  by, 


48  THE    OLD    GREEN    SASH 

Thot  within  yer  heart  ye'll  whisper: 
"There's  me  Oirish  proide  an'  j'y!" 

Shure,  ye'll  see  th'  Sheas  and  Sharkeys, 
Wid  thim  Kelly  fri'nds  av  moine, 

Passin'  word  along  th'  curbstone: 
"There  comes  Dugan!    Ain't  he  foine?' 

How  yer  dear  ould  heart  will  flutter 
Till  th'  tears  and  laughter  clash, 

Then  ye'll  hear  yer  own  self  sayin': 
"Shure  'twas  me  thot  tied  th'  sash!" 

Though  th'  years  roll  on,  Ann  Dugan, 
An'  me  hair  grows  deeper  gray, 

Still  thot  dear  ould  sash  I'll  cherish 
Till  me  lasht  S'int  Pathrick's  dav! 


FETCHING  HOME  THE  COWS 

TT^RIEND,  I  know  you'll  misconstrue  me 
•*•  An'  will  chuckle  when  I  say 

That  I've  seen  a  livin'  picture 

Of  my  boyhood's  years  to-day. 
Yes,  sir;  seen  it  like  'twas  human 

An'  it  made  th'  blood  in  me 
Rise  half-skeered  an'  half-delighted 

At  its  strange  reality. 
Tell  you  how  it  was — now,  listen ! 

Through  some  impulse  undefined 
I  walked  countryward  this  twilight 

Seekin'  calm  an'  peace  of  mind. 
Well,  'twas  while  I  paused  a  moment 

Near  the  foot  of  Five-mile  Bridge 
That  a  herd  of  cows  come  browsin' 

'Long  a  bypath  down  th'  ridge. 

49 


50          FETCHING    HOME    THE    COWS 

Now,  that  ain't  no  strange  adventure, 
But  'twas  queer  you  will  agree, 

That  among  th'  livin'  cattle 

Walked  two  cows  in  phantomry! 

Yes,  sir;  spirit  cows,  I'm  sayin', 

Walked  among  th'  livin'  herd, 

An'  it  got  me  so  bewildered 

That  I  couldn't  speak  a  word. 

Comin' — they  just  kep'  a-comin'- 

Till  th'  mist  that  dimmed  my  eye 

Made  me  see  old  Red  an'  Molly- 
Cows  Dad  owned  in  days  gone  by 

There  they  were,  Red's  bell  a-tinklin', 

Where  they  always  used  to  browse 

An'  I  heard  my  mother  callin': 

"Sonny,  go  an'  fetch  th'  cows!" 

• 

All  at  once  th'  world  grew  newer! 
It  was  not  a  world  of  men ; 


52          FETCHING    HOME    THE    COWS 

It  was  boyhood,  all  obedient, 

Fetchin'  home  th'  cows  again. 
Joyously  I  followed  after, 

Tossin'  pebbles  down  the  lane, 
Urgin'  Red  an'  Molly  homeward, 

For  th'  day  was  on  th'  wane. 
But  my  march  abruptly  ended 

When  a  man's  voice  made  me  rouse, 
Comin'  from  th'  hills  behind  me: 

"Where  ye  goin'  with  my  cows?" 
"Back  to  boyhood!"  I  informed  him, 

An'  I  think  he  Understood, 
For  he  answered,  kind  an'  friendly: 

"Dear  old  man,  I  wish  you  could!" 


SCHOOL'S  OUT  AT  SHORTRIDGE 

OING  if  you  will  of  the  debutantes 
And  toast  all  the  queens  that  rule, 

But    give    me    the    girls — the    Shortridge 

girls— 
On  the  homeward  way  from  school. 

On  the  schoolward  way  their  steps  may  halt 
And  their  eyes  shed  doubtful  light, 

As  they  face  the  pall  of  Learning's  call 
And  of  books  untouched  last  night. 

For  Youth  in  blossom  is  Youth  aglow 

And  none  of  us  dares  deny 
That  the  schoolward  way  was  a  dull,  deep 
gray 

In  the  good  old  days  gone  by. 


53 


54     SCHOOL'S  OUT  AT  SHORTRIDGE 

But  after  school!    Then  Youth  sings  songs 

As  it  goes  its  care-free  way, 
And  'twas  thus  that  I  at  old  Shortridge  High 

Saw  the  girls  go  by  to-day. 

Their  steps  were  light,   their  hearts  were 
light, 

Not  a  book-cloud  marred  the  sky; 
The  school-day  done,  they  were  out  for  fun 

And  they  had  it — so  did  I. 

My  heart  grew  glad  as  I  saw  them  pass 

In  caravan  gay  and  sweet, 
While  echoes  of  "He"  and  "Him"  and  "We" 

Were  wafted  along  the  street. 

Ah,  what  is  sweeter  than  Youth's  first  dreams 
Of  Loves  that  never  may  be 

Or  yields  more  smiles  in  the  afterwhiles 
Of  a  School-day  Memory? 


56     SCHOOL'S  OUT  AT  SHORTRIDGE 

So  here's  to  the  Girls  of  Shortridge  High, 
May  Life  flood  their  souls  with  joy, 

And  could  I  decree  new  fate  for  me— 
Well,  I'd  be  a  Shortridge  Boy! 


THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  LONESOME 
GRAY 

\  N  old  gray  nag,  with  a  droop  and  drag, 

Drew  up  at  the  curb  to-day, 
And,  as  horses  talk  as  well  as  balk, 
We  heard  the  old  steed  say: 

"Where  are  the  friends,  the  good  old  friends 
I  knew  in  the  days  gone  by? 

The  Bills  and  Petes  of  the  city  streets 
Are  gone — but  here  am  I. 

"The  motor  rage  of  this  speed-mad  age 
Has  driven  them  all  away, 

Till  now  I'm  classed  with  the  hazy  Past 
And  known  as  The  Lonesome  Gray. 


57 


58    THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  LONESOME  GRAY 

"I  gaze  to  right  and  my  only  sight 

Is  motors  of  divers  style; 
I  look  to  left  and  my  soul's  bereft 

Of  even  an  old  pal's  smile. 

"And  now  I  hear — with  loss  of  cheer — 
They're  to  have  a  Motor  Show 

Like  the  horses  had  in  the  golden,  glad 
Old  days  of  the  long  ago. 

"They'll  shine  and  rub  each  spoke  and  hub, 
They'll  make  the  bodies  shed 

A  lustrous  sheen  like  that  I've  seen 
Put  on  the  thoroughbred. 

"They'll    talk   of   pumps,    of   springs    and 
bumps, 

They'll  gossip  of  tools  and  tires, 
But  never  a  word  will  there  be  heard 

Of  love  for  a  line  of  sires. 


60    THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  LONESOME  GRAY 

"Well,  I  suppose  wise  Progress  knows 
The  needs  of  the  world  to-day. 

But  my  old  eyes  blur  when  men  prefer 
Honk-honk  to  a  friendly  neigh!" 


"GIT   EP!" 

is  folks  dat's  allus  whinin' 

'Bout  de  burdens  dey  mus'  b'ah, 
'Bout  de  sun  ain'  nevah  shinin' 

Art  it's  rainin'  ev'rywhah. 
An'  dey  nevah  do  no  hopin' 

Fo'  de  bettah  days  to  come, 
But  sneak  to  bed  a-mopin' 

An'  git  up  all  blue  an'  glum. 
Now,  dey  ain'  no  use  o'  talkin', 

Dat  won't  he'p  de  soul  along, 
So,  instid  o'  standin'  balkin', 

Perk  right  up  an'  sing  dis  song: 

Oh,  Ah's  got  ma  grins  a-growin' 
An'  Ah's  got  ma  hawn  a-blowin' ; 
'Tain'  no  time  to  be  a-whoain', 
So,  come  on,  le's  git  a-goin' — 
GIT  EP! 

61 


62  "GIT  EP!" 

Whut's  de  use  ob  lamentatin' 

'Bout  de  worl'  an'  its  regrets? 
Naw,  dey  ain'  no  jobs  a-waitin' 

Fo'  de  man  dat  fumes  an'  frets. 
Yo'  may  hab  to  face  a  sorrow 

As  a  paht  ob  life  to-day, 
But  de  sunshine  ob  to-morrow 

Soon  will  sweep  de  clouds  away. 
It's  a  fac'  dat  bein'  teahful 

Gits  yo'  nothin'  'cep'  a  sting- 
So,  come  on,  le's  all  be  cheehful! 

Th'ow  yo'  haid  up  high  an'  sing 

Oh,  Ah's  got  ma  grins  a-growin' 
An'  Ah's  got  ma  hawn  a-blowin'; 
'Tain'  no  time  to  be  a-whoain', 
So,  come  on,  le's  git  a-goin' — 
GIT  EP! 


THE  CIRCUS  WAGON'S  RUMBLE 

T^OLKS,  I  know  you're  goin'  to  chuckle 
•*•  An'  embarrass  me  like  sin 

With  your  jov'al  accusations 

That  I'm  turnin'  boy  ag'in, 
When  I  make  th'  simple  statement, 

Purged  of  guile  an'  fancy  free, 
That  a  circus  wagon's  rumble 

Ain't  unmusical  to  me. 
Them's  th'  facts!    I  say  it  honest 

An'  could  prove  my  the'ries  true 
If  you  only  had  th'  courage 

Of  a  young  'un's  point  of  view. 
Just  fergit  now,  fer  a  moment, 

All  your  self-devised  conceit 
An'  play  like  there's  a  circus  show 

A-comin'  down  th'  street. 

64 


66       THE  CIRCUS  WAGON'S  RUMBLE 

Here  she  comes!    There's  no  denyin' 

It's  a  picture  mighty  grand, 
With  its  clowns  an'  golden  cages 

An'  its  heralders  an'  band. 
Now  just  set  your  ears  fer  listening 

Both  a-hark'nin'  to'rd  th'  ground, 
So's  they'll  ketch  th'  rhythmic  rumble 

Of  th'  wheels  a-goin'  'round. 
Why,  it  makes  my  body  tingle 

From  my  head  down  to  my  heels 
When  I  hear  th'  rumblin'  mumblin' 

Of  a  circus  wagon's  wheels. 
No,  I  wouldn't  say  'twas  music, 

Like  a  harp  or  choral  glee, 
But  I  do  insist,  by  doggies, 

That  it's  mighty  sweet  to  me! 

I  just  go  around  a-listenin' 

From  th'  time  it  comes  to  town 


THE  CIRCUS  WAGON'S  RUMBLE        e? 

Till  th'  big  menag'rie's  loaded 

An'  th'  tents  are  comin'  down. 
Every  wheel  I  hear  a-turnin' 

Brings  my  boyhood  back  to  me, 
When  I  went  to  bed  at  sunset 

An'  got  up  at  half  pas'  three. 
I  can  tell  each  wagon's  rumble- 
Ticket,  canvas,  cage  or  pole— 
An'  I  learnt  my  first  real  cussin' 

From  a  driver  in  a  hole. 
So,  you  see  I'm  schooled  in  circus, 

An'  no  rumbles  ever  heard 
Are  as  sweetly  hypnotistic— 

If  there  is  that  kind  of  word. 


O  AY,  Mister  Sportin'  Editor, 

^  Please  give  us  kids  de  space 

To  tell  about  de  winnin' 

Of  de  Stringtown  pennant  race. 
Ye  see,  'twuz  like  dis,  Mister, 

Us  Little  White  Sox  guys 
We  played  de  Blake  Street  Busters 

Four  games  an'  two  wuz  ties, 
Well,  dey  dis  kep'  a-claimin' 

Dey's  champeens,  don't  ye  see? 
Dis  'cause  deir  game  stood  ten  to  eight 

An'  ours  wuz  four  to  three. 
So  we  got  tired  o'  listenin' 

To  all  deir  champeen  stuff 
An'  challenged  'em  to  play  de  rub— 

An'  'course  dey  called  de  bluff. 

68 


70     THE     STORY     OF     THE     GAME 

Who  christianed  us  de  White  Sox? 

Well,  dat's  our  name  all  right, 
Fer  when  our  team  is  goin'  t'  play 

We  wash  our  ankles  white. 
Well,  after  poppin'  off  a  while 

De  Busters  dey  come  'round. 
An'  said  dey'd  play  us  Saturday 

Down  on  de  circus  ground. 
Us  captains  tossed  a  bat  to  see 

Which  side  took  in  er  out 
An'  dat's  de  way  de  game  begun 

I'm  tellin'  ye  about 
Well,  t'ings  went  nip  an'  tuck  a  while 

Until  de  Busters  dey 
Got  to  our  pitcher  an'  we  t'ought 

De  stuff  wuz  off,  but  say, 
De  ninth  come  'round,  de  score 

It  stood  ag'in'  us — six  to  three — • 


THE     STORY     OF     THE     GAME       71 

Two  Sox  wuz  out — de  bases  full!— 

An'  it  wuz  up  to  me! 
Two  strikes!  T'ree  balls! 

De  dippy  umps  wuz  stingin'  me  fer  fair — 
De  next  ball  up  wuz  in  de  groove! 

Say,  guy,  I  hit  it  square! 
It  bee-lined  t'roo  de  pitcher's  box 

Wid  never  slackin'  pace 
Till — bing!    It  stuck  inside  a  can 

We  used  fer  second  base! 
Us  four  White  Sox  went  racin'  'round — 

I  made  de  winnin'  run 
Before  dey  got  dat  baseball  out! 

Dat's  how  de  game  wuz  won! 
De  Busters  touched  us  wid  de  can, 

But  umps  says,  wid  a  grin: 
"Ye  got  t'  touch  'em  wid  de  ball 

An'  not  a  piece  o'  tin!" 


THE  URCHIN  AND  THE  LILY 

"TTANDS   off   the   flowers,"   the   park 
-*-  -*-   sign   said. 

The  Urchin — what  cared  he?— 
When  lilies,  from  their  marshy  bed, 

Peered  forth  so  temptingly. 

"Wat's  flo'rs  fer?"  we  heard  him  say, 

"If  dey  ain't  fer  t'  pick, 
Uspecially  w'en  'cross  de  way 

Dey's  some  one  awful  sick!" 

And  ere  the  park  policeman's  shout 
Could  halt  his  hand  or  feet, 

He'd  plucked  a  lily,  wheeled  about, 
And  hurried  for  the  street. 

The  water  from  the  petals  dripped 
And  marked  his  speeding  path, 


72 


74         THE  URCHIN  AND  THE   LILY 

Till  through  a  cottage  door  he  tripped 
Beyond  avenging  wrath. 

There,  on  a  bed  of  snowy  white, 

The  lily  bud  he  threw. 
"Gee,   looky,   sweetheart!"   cried  the   mite. 

"Look  w'at  I  brung  to  you!" 

His  mother's  pale  hands  clasped  his  own 
And  tear-drops  that  he  saw 

Made  him  to  lisp,  in  tender  tone: 

"Ain't  you  my  sweetheart,  Ma?" 


LONGINGS  AND  LIMITATIONS 


'T    think    that    I'm    complainin', 

folks, 

'Bout  bein'  horned  a  girl, 

'Cause  I'm  as  glad  as  I  can  be 

I'm  not  a  dog  er  squir'l. 
But,  seems  to  me,  boys  allus  gits 

Th'  best  of  ever'thing, 
Uspecially  when  circus  shows 

Starts  comin'  in  th'  Spring. 
Fer  then  they  git  to  go  an'  watch 

Th'  circus  train  unload, 
An'  see  th'  elephants  an'  all 

A-comin'  down  th'  road. 
But  girls  —  they've  got  to  stay  at  home, 

No  matter  how  they  frown, 
An'  act  like  growed-up  wimmens  when 

Th'  circus  comes  to  town. 

75 


76         LONGINGS    AND    LIMITATIONS 

Boys  gits  up  mornin's  four  o'clock— 

My  brother  does,  an'  he 
Wakes  up  th'  boy  next  door,  but  they 

Don't  never  wake  up  me. 
They  never  wait  fer  breakfast  time, 

Like  girls  would  have  to  do; 
Dis  all  they  want  is  crackers,  er 

A  cold  fried  egg  er  two. 
Then  off  they  go  an'  don't  come  back 

Till  supper  time,  an'  then 
Go  sneakin'  through  th'  backyard  gate 

An'  see  th'  show  again. 
But  girls  they've  got  to  stay  at  home 

An'  pout  an'  sit  aroun', 
An*  hate  it  'cause  they're  wimmen  when 

Th'  circus  comes  to  town. 

I  bet  you  when  I  git  growed  up, 

An'  have  things  my  own  way, 


78         LONGINGS    AND    LIMITATIONS 

I'll  go  out  to  th'  circus  grounds 

An'  stay  there  all  th'  day. 
No  one  can  make  me  stick  at  home 

All  dollared  up  an'  sweet, 
An'  I'll  have  all  th'  lemonade 

An'  peanuts  I  can  eat. 
I'll  tell  you  what  girls  ought  to  do, 

To  not  be  left  alone — 
That's  buy  theirselves  a  circus  show 

An'  have  it  all  their  own. 
Er  else  all  go  an'  marry  to 

Some  ackerbat  er  clown 
An'  live  right  with  the  circus  when 

Th'  circus  comes  to  town. 


'  T    ONG  'bout  four  doors  down  Georgy 
•"     Street, 

Just  off  o'  Illinoy, 

Bill  Powell  keeps  a  blacksmith  shop — 
Bill  Powell  an'  his  boy. 

Th'  shop's  just  like  ten  thousand  more, 
Except  in  one  degree — 

It's  got  some  sentiments  on  toil 

That's  mighty  sweet  to  me. 

Now'  days  th'  order  is  to  work 

From  dawn  till  set  of  sun, 

But  down  to  Bill's  they  do  their  work- 
Then  sing  when  they  git  done! 

Bill's  men  is  all  musicianers— 

Such  good  ones,  I'll  remark, 


79 


80          THE    VOCALIZING    VULCANS 

That  when  their  organ  starts  to  play 

I'll  hang  around  till  dark. 
An'  it's  a  reg'lar  organ,  too, 

An  Estey  worn  an'  old, 
But  still  possessed  of  tones  like  them 

Th'  forest  choirs  unfold. 
I   reckon  'twas  a  treasure 

In  some  parlor  long  ago, 
For  Bill's  boy  bought  it  second-hand— 

Or  third-hand — he  dunno. 

It  sits  around  behind  th'  forge 

An',  I  confess,  it's  odd 
To  see  an  organ  in  th'  midst 

Of  horses  gittin'  shod. 
Yet,  there  it  is,  an'  oftentimes 

You'll  hear  th'  anvil's  ring 
A-keepin'  time  with  melodies 

Th'  smiths  and  teamsters  sing. 


82          THE    VOCALIZING    VULCAXS 

But  most  times  it's  at  close  of  day 

When  all  th'  work  is  through 

That  Bill's  men  an'  th'  organ 

Harmonize  a  hymn  or  two. 

Th'  firelight  in  th'  forge  burns  low- 
Yet  high  enough  so's  they 

Can  see  th'  hymn  book  an'  th'  notes 

That  Bill's  boy  has  to  play. 

The'  traffic  out  in  Georgy  Street 

Slows  down  an'  halts  to  hear 

Old  "Rock  of  Ages"  ringin'  out 

In  cadence  sweet  an'  clear. 

An'  there  I  sit  a-thankin'  God 

That,  of  th'  city's  throng, 

There's  some  who  find  life  sweet  enough 
To  blend  its  toil  with  song. 


THE  MUDDLED  MODES 


ES,  Time  has  devised  many  changes, 


Y 

•••     my  brother, 


I'm  not  the  beau-bravo  you  once  used  to 
know. 

Perhaps  I've  slowed  up,  Bud,  but  somehow 
or  other 

I  don't  make  the  breeze  that  I  did  years  ago. 

I  now  stand  around  like  some  preacher  on 
pension, 

And,  Bud,  you  may  grasp  what  my  plati- 
tudes mean 

When  I  but  remark  that  I'm  under  great 
tension 

Since    Sister    looks    forty    and    Mother— 
sixteen! 

You  don't  live  at  home,  Bud;  you  miss  the 
confusion 

83 


84  THE     MUDDLED     MODES 

That  comes  of  the  styles  as  they're  wearing 

them  now. 

My  days  are  all  spent  in  a  maze  of  illusion— 
I  can't  tell  our  Mother  from  Sister  some- 
how! 
Oft  times  as  I  gaze  down  the  walks  ot  the 

garden 

I  see  a  trim  figure  with  grace  of  a  queen; 
It  looks  like  our  Sister  but — I   must  beg 

pardon- 
It's  tunic-gowned  Mother— not  forty! — six- 
teen! 

And     Sister — dear     Sister — that     idolized 

creature, 
With  stately  composure  she  sweeps  thro' 

the  hall, 
The  girlishness  banished  from  coiffure  and 

feature — 


86           THE     MUDDLED     MODES 

You'd  think  her  teens  vanished  forever  and 

all! 

She  trips  off  with  Mother  to  tea  or  cotillion ; 
They  maxixe  and  tango  in  chumship  serene, 
And  no  man  would  dare — not  one  man  in  a 

million— 
To  say  which  was  forty  and  which  was — 

sixteen! 

I  see  them  down-town  in  the  bargaining 

Meccas, 
My  heart  beats  with  pride  as  they  Argentine 

by; 

Oh,  yes,  they  walk  dance  steps — the  Eves 
and  Rebekahs 

Now  move  with  new  grace  that  is  youthful 
and  spry. 

And,  brother,  I  like  it — with  all  my  inert- 
ness— 


THE     MUDDLED     MODES  87 

The   man   who    disdains    it   is    sordid    and 

mean. 
For,  though  they  confuse  me,  I  like  their 

alertness- 
Ma  rivals  at  forty  our  Sis  at  sixteen! 


MOTHER'S  DAY 

OO  at  last  we've  got  to  Mother, 
^  By  our  deviatin'  ways, 

With  a  thought  to  plant  some  gladness 

In  th'  garden  of  her  days. 
We  have  bowed  to  men-  immortals 

An'  have  made  a  lot  of  stir 
'Bout  th'  glory  of  th'  nation— 

But  we've  been  neglectin'  her! 

An',  th'  fact  is,  she  ain't  askin' 

Fer  no  emphasized  degree 
Of  th'  thing  men  call  distinction— 

Lawsy,  no! — old  Mother  she 
Asks  fer  nothin'  more  heroic 

Than  th'  feelin'.  warm  an'  snug, 
Of  a  Mother's  Day  remembrance 

In  a  lovin'  little  hug. 


90  MOTHER'SDAY 

Mother's  Day!    I  like  th'  meter 

Of  its  sweet  an'  rhythmic  ring, 
Per  it  breathes  of  early  Maytime 

An'  th'  very  soul  of  Spring. 
Then  it  is  my  thoughts  of  Mother 

Kind  o'  run  to  happy  hours 
Back  behind  th'  old  home  kitchen, 

Watchin'  her  a-plantin'  flowers. 
An'  I  draw  sweet  mem'ry  pictures 

Of  my  childhood  long  ago 
When  her  step  was  more  elastic 

An'  her  brow  had  less  of  snow. 
An'  to-day  my  soul's  a-pinin' 

An'  my  heartstrings  feel  a  tug 
That  is  nothin'  more  than  hunger 

Fer  a  lovin'  little  hug. 

Folks,  they  tell  me  that  th'  doctrine 

Of  our  havin'  Mother's  Day 


MOTHER'S  DAY  91 

Is  to  kind  o'  ease  her  burdens 

In  a  lovin'  sort  of  way; 
Just  to  send  her  to  th'  parlor, 

In  her  newest  Sunday  gown, 
With  a  sweet  command,  but  final : 

"Mother,  now  you  go  sit  down." 
Pile  her  high  with  glad  devotions, 

Match  her  smile  with  words  of  praise, 
Till  you  ketch  yourself  a-wishin' 

All  her  life  was  Mother's  Days. 
Draw  her  closely,  fondly  to  you 

An'  you'll  feel  her  old  heart  chug 
As  her  tears  of  gladness  thank  you 

Fer  a  lovin'  little  hug. 


TTOWDY,  Mistah  Punkin! 

Good  mawnin'!     Howdy-do! 
I  been  all  thoo  de  Mahket 
To  find  a  scamp  lak  yo'. 
Mammy  says  to  bring  yo'  home, 
An'  dat's  my  'tendon,  too— 
So  howdy,  Mistah  Punkin! 
Good  mawnin'!  Howdy-do! 

Say,  Punk,  I'll  tell  yo'  fortune, 
One  sho'ly  comin'  true- 
Ob  co'se  I  knows  yo's  yallah, 
But  dis'll  make  yo'  blue— 
A  cullud  lady  wif  a  knife 
Am  gwine  to  cut  yo'  thoo! 
So  howdy,  Mistah  Punkin! 
Good  mawnin'!    Howdy-do! 


She's  gwine  to  peel  yo'  hide  off, 
Take  out  yo'  innards,  too; 
Den  cahve  yo'  all  to  pieces 
An'  put  yo'  on  to  stew, 


94     HOWDY,    MISTAH     PUNKINl 

So's  when  it  comes  Thanksgivin' 
Her  boy  kin  say  to  yo' — 
Howdy,  Mistah  Punkin  Pie! 
Good  mawnin'!    Howdy-do! 


A  CREEKSIDE  COMEDY 

QOMETIMES  I  like  th'  Winter  best, 
^   Then  sometimes  Spring  an'  Fall, 
But  mostly  me  an'  Pizen  thinks 
Ole  Summer  beats  them  all! 

We  call  him  Pizen  'cause,  you  see, 

He  gits  his  feet  all  sore 
From  pizen  vines — an'  then  he  can't 

Go  barefoot  any  more. 

Ole  Pize  an'  me  has  lots  of  jokes 

In  summer-time  when  we 
Go  swimmin'  in  th'  swimmin'  hole 

Down  by  the  wilier  tree. 

We  start  a-takin'  off  our  clo'es 

Before  we're  nearly  there 
An'  then  I  holler:  "Last  one  in 

His  dad's  a  grizzly  bear!" 

96 


96          A    CREEKSIDE    COMEDY 

An'  'course,  his  daddy's  allus  it, 

'Cause  Pizen  can't  begin 
To  git  his  shoes  an'  stockin's  off 

Before  I'm  divin'  in. 

Then  Pizen  he  gits  even  when 

He  takes  th'  clo'es  I've  got, 
An'  soon's  I'm  divin'  in  th'  crick, 

He  ties  'em  in  a  knot. 

An'  when  we're  done  a-swimmin'  he 

Goes  'hind  some  tree  to  hide 
An'  yells  "Chaw  beef!"  when  I  have  got 

To  chew  my  clo'es  untied. 

Then  soon  as  we  are  both  dressed  up 

We  stand  around  an'  grin 
Till  both,  without  a  single  word, 

Strips  off — an'  goes  back  in! 


SANTA  CLAUS  DAYS 

SANTA    CLAUS    days!    What    a 

mystical  maze 
You  weave  all  about  us  to  last  all  our  days! 
With  skeins  of  sweet  legend  of  fanciful  hue 
Our  hearts  are  forever  held  captive  by  you. 
The  years  may  divide  the  gray  present  from 

youth 
And  garrulous  tongues  shatter  Fancy  with 

Truth, 
Still,  deep  in  our  breasts,  beam  the  undying 

rays 
Of  heart-holy  love  for  old  Santa  Claus  days! 

My  Santa  Claus  days!  Yes,  the  ones  that  I 

knew ; 
I  arn  longing  to-night  for  communion  with 

you. 


98 


SANTA    CLAUS    DAYS  99 

Come  back  down  the  chimney,  O  Season  of 
Joy! 

And  set  me  to  dreaming  the  dreams  of  a  boy. 
Hang  up  by  the  fireplace,  on  bedpost  and 

chair 
The  same  baby  stockings  that  used  to  be 

there. 
Hang  o'er  them  the  wishes,  the  hopes,  of  a 

child 
And  let  my  old  heart  be  a  boy's  running 

wild! 

Glad  Santa  Claus  days!  As  I  muse  o'er  you 
now, 

Fond  memories,  green  as  the  mistletoe 
bough, 

Come  trooping  before  me  to  laugh  and  un- 
fold 

Each  joy  that  was  mine  in  the  boy  days  of 
old. 

I  greet  with  glad  glances  the  holly,  the  tree, 


lob  SANTA    CLAUS    DAYS 

And  a  Romping  Old  Tourist  whose  riotous 

glee 

Subsides  to  a  smile  as  he  pauses  to  beam 
On  a  drowsy  old  man  at  his  Christmas  Eve 

dream. 

Gray  Santa  Claus  days!  Though  the 
journey  is  far 

From  Used-to-be  days  to  the  dream  days 
that  are, 

My  faith  has  not  wavered,  O  Saint  of  the 
Sleigh! 

As  I  loved  you  in  childhood  I  love  you  to- 
day. 

The  cynics  may  scoff  and  Truth  call  me  a 
foe, 

But  the  same  old  Saint  Nick  that  I  knew 
long  ago 

Shall  live  in  my  soul  till  I  come  to  the  day 
When   even  my  dreams   fade   and  vanish 
away! 


THANKSGIVIN'  PUNKIN  PIE 

TH'  luck  there  is  in  livin' 
'Long  about  good  old  Thanksgivin' 
When  th'  crops  for  which  you've  striven 

Are  all  safely  gathered  by. 
When  th'  autumn's  harvest  story 
Is  of  summer's  golden  glory, 
Then  you're  feelin'  hunky-dory 

An'  you're  wantin'  punkin  pie! 
P-  U-  Unkin- 

Punkin  pie  I 

Then  there  oozes  from  th'  kitchen 
Soothin'  odors  so  bewitchin' 
That  they  set  your  nostrils  itchin' 

An'  put  twinkles  in  your  eye. 

101 


102        THANKSGIVIN'  PUNKIN  PIE 

An'  you  know  th'  thing  tormentin' 
That  you  ketch  yourself  a-scentin' 
Is  a  joy  your  wife's  inventin'- 

Real  Thanksgivin'  punkin  pie. 
p_  u—  Unkin— 

Punkin  pie! 

You  don't  want  to  wait  a  minute 
For  a  chance  to  go  ag'in'  it- 
Want  to  git  your  face  down  in  it 

Till  it  chokes  you  purty  nigh. 
Feel  like  you  could  finish  seven, 
Tackle  nine  an'  mebbe  'leven— 
But  just  ONE  would  be  a  heaven 

If  it's  reg'lar  Hoosier  pie! 
P-  U-  Unkin— 

Punkin  pie! 


THE  WONDERFUL  LAND  OF  SEE 


'S  a  wonderful  land  that  babies 


rr^ 
•*•     explore; 


We  will  call  it  the  Land  of  See; 
It  runs  from  the  hall  to  the  old  kitchen  door, 

Then  back  to  a  fond  mother's  knee. 
And  sometimes  their  world  is  a  big  window- 
'seat, 

Or  under  the  green  bay  tree- 
Wherever  it  is,  you  will  hear  them  repeat 

Their  mystical  joy-word:   "See?" 

And    what    do    they    see?     Well,    nobody 

knows  ; 

To  them  things  are  all  that  they  seem. 
The    wall-paper's    flower    quite    suddenly 

grows, 
There's  snow  in  the  teakettle's  steam. 

103 


104         THE  WONDERFUL  LAND  OF  SEE 

The  mirror  is  peopled  with  real  little  girls 
And  not  just  with  faces  that  beam; 

The  bed  is  an  ocean  that  tumbles  and  whirls 
And  makes  the  "See?"  mariners  scream! 

They  "See?"  and  point  fingers  at  mythical 

things 

That  grown-ups  know  never  could  be; 
Yet    each    pointed    finger    some    memory 

brings 

Quite  clearly  to  you  and  to  me. 
For    one    time,  we,    too,    on    Fancy's    gay 

wings 

Made  flights  'round  a  dear  mother's  knee, 
But   Time    came    along    and    severed    the 

strings, 
Then  stole  our  fair  Land  of  See. 


LITTLE  LADY  'PRINKLECAN 

LITTLE  Lady  Trinklecan, 
'At's  what  our  next  neighbor  man 
All  time  calls  me  when  I  go 
'Prinklin'  where  our  flowers  grow. 
Ever'  day  an'  ever'  day 
'At's  what  our  next  neighbor  say. 

I  ist  like  to  get  up  soon 
'Fore  it's  nearly  afternoon, 
'Nen  go  find  my  'prinklecan 
An'  ist  make  our  neighbor  man 
Laugh  an'  laugh  till  he  can't  see 
Laughin'  by  hisself  at  me. 

Seem   like   flowers   don't  know   when 
They  must  drink  some  water,  'nen 


106 


108         LITTLE    LADY    'PRINKLECAN 

I  ist  got  to  go  an'  look 
If  their  water's  all  been  took. 
'Nen  I  got  to  'prinkle — see?— 
Till  he  comes  an'  laughs  at  me. 

I  ist  play  like  I  don't  care 

If  he's  standin'  laughin'  there. 

Too,  he  jokes  me  'bout  my  hat 

An'  my  feets  an'  things  like  that. 

'Nen  we  both  laugh — 'cause,  you  see, 

I  ist  all  time  'prinkle  me! 


WHEN  YOU'VE  BEEN  AWAY  A 
WHILE 

/^AFTTIMES,  in  life's  endeavor, 
^^        You  grow  weary  of  the  way 
Your  feet,  the  slaves  of  custom, 

Tread  the  same  old  paths  each  day. 
You  tire  of  things  and  faces 

And,  well,  somehow,  can  not  down 
A  deep,  insatiate  longing 

Just  to  get  away  from  town. 
You'd  leave  to-day's  environs 

Far  behind  you,  mile  on  mile, 
And,  to-morrow,  would  be  happy, 

When  you'd  got  away  a  while. 

The  way  might  lead  to  cities, 

Or  where  land  and  oceans  meet, 


109 


no    WHEN  YOU'VE  BEEN  AWAY  A  WHILE 

Though,  sometimes,  Nature's  solitudes 

Make  freedom  doubly  sweet. 
But  days  will  come,  O  Wanderer, 

I  care  not  where  you  roam, 
When  magnets  wrought  of  hearth-love 

Will  turn  your  feet  toward  home. 
You'll  find,  too,  that  you're  hungry 

For  an  honest,  friendly  smile; 
They  seem  so  worth  the  having— 

When  you've  been  away  a  while. 

The  homebound  train  moves  slowly, 

Though  the  time  card  says  it's  fast; 
The  homebound  heart's  impatient, 

But  all  trains  get  there  at  last 
With  nose  against  the  window 

You  will  peer  out  in  the  night 
To  have  your  vision  gladdened 

By  the  first  electric  light. 


112  WHEN  YOU'VE  BEEN  AWAY  A  WHILE 

And  if  you've  come  in  daytime 

You  will  hurry  down  the  aisle 

Half-shouting:   "It's  the  old  town! 

I've  been  gone  an  awful  while!" 


THE   MOP  MARYS 


in    the    Yard,    with    its    dust 

and  din, 

Its  aLimiteds"  out  and  "Fast  Mails"  in, 
There  toil  two  women  of  sturdy  frame, 
Unsung  in  ballad  nor  known  to  fame, 
And  yet,  in  life,  with  its  sordid  trend, 
They  serve  a  worthy  and  useful  end. 
Mop  Marys,  they  call  them,  which  name 

regards 
The  work  they  do  in  the  Pullman  yards. 

We  stand  and  view,  with  wondering  eye, 
The  great  steel  caravan  rushing  by, 
Yet  never  a  thought  commends  the  arms 
That  gave  the  train  its  burnished  charms. 
We  ponder  not  on  the  hours  of  toil, 
The  battles  with  dust  and  grime  and  oil; 


113 


THE    MOP    MARYS  115 

Of  backs  that  bend  and  of  aching  knees 
That  spell  train  elegance,  comfort,  ease! 

From  dawn  of  day  till  the  twilight  hour 
They  mop  and  dust  and  scrub  and  scour, 
Though  Life's  grim  irony 

plays  them  mean — 
They  travel  not  in  the  cars  they  clean. 
Still,  back  of  it  all,  their  hearts  aspire 
For  something  more  than  their  humble  hire. 
'Tis  an  inner  joy  they  can't  explain, 
Born  when  you  say: 

"What  a  splendid  train!" 


THE   OLD    HIGH   CHAIR 

A  T  the  door  of  a  shop 
*-  In  quaint  Second-hand  Square 

Stands  a  battered,  discarded, 

Old-fashioned  high  chair. 
Its  legs  have  grown  wabbly, 

Its  back  is  infirm, 
The  arms  show  the  stress 

Of  each  juvenile  squirm. 
Its  foot-rest  is  rounded  by  shuffling  of  feet, 
The  paint  has  long  vanished 

From  arms,  back  and  seat. 
Each  passer-by  knows,  by  its  vagabond  tone, 
That  more  than  one  baby 

Has  ruled  from  its  throne. 

Each  worn  arm  exhibits 

A  spoon's  crescent  dent 


116 


118       THE      OLD      HIGH      CHAIR 

By  some  little  tartar  with  anger  to  vent. 

And  if  you  look  closely 

No  doubt  you'll  see,  too, 

The  imprints  of  teeth 

That  were  just  coming  through. 

One  almost  can  picture, 

Through  Fancy's  design. 

The  days  when  'twas  your  chair— 
Or  maybe  'twas  mine! 

Ah,  well,  it  was  some  one's— 

This  rattlebox  throne 

That  stands  on  the  sidewalk- 
Deserted  ! — alone ! 

But  where  are  the  babies? 

The  world  winders  where 
Are  all  of  the  toddlers 

Who've  clung  to  this  chair? 
Have  they  become  grown-ups 

And  passed   from   the   maze 


THE      OLD      HIGH      C  H  A  T  R        119 

Of  Lullabyland  and  its  baby  chair  days? 
God  grant  'twas  not  Want, 

Every  mother-heart's  dread, 
That  caused  one  to  barter 

This  treasure  for  bread. 
And  if  He  of  Heaven  made  vacant  her  chair 
No  doubt  one  as  comfy 

Was  waiting  Up  There! 


GOOD  OLD  MISTER  BOBSLED 


G 


OOD  old  Mister  Bobsled 
Friend  of  long  ago, 
How  I  long  to  see,  you,  Bob, 
Soon  as  they's  a  snow. 

Sort  of  git  to  feelin' 
How  'twould  do  me  good 
Just  to  go  to  town  ag'in 
On  a  bob  o'  wood. 

Daddy  up  a-drivin', 
Me  an'  ma  an'  Milt 
Sittin'  there  behind  him 
Snugged  up  in  a  quilt. 

Comforters  a-plenty, 
Irons  to  warm  our  feet, 
Yes,  an'  sticks  o'  hick'ry  wood 
Servin'  fer  a  seat. 


120 


GOOD    OLD    MISTER    BOBSLED    121 

Hear  th'  snow  a-creakin' 
As  we'd  scoot  along, 
Somethin'  kind  o'  angel-like 
In  th'  runners'  song. 

Nick  an'  Nell  a-trottin' 
Down  old  Heston  road, 
Nary  thought  about  their  sins 
Er  their  heavy  load. 

Good  old  Mister  Bobsled, 
Though  ye're  out  o'  style, 
Still  ye've  got  them  fancy  sleds 
Beat  a  thousan'  mile. 

'Least  that's  my  opinion, 
An'  I'd  ort  to  know— 
'Cause  me  an'  you  was  kinfolks 
Forty  years  ago. 


THE  HANDICAP  OF  RICHES 

T  T  ERE,  looky,  Jimmy !    Looky  here ! 
-*•  •*•     Dat's  w'at  I  meant,  ye  see, 
A-blowin'  how  de  rich  guy's  kids 
Ain't  got  no  edge  on  me. 

It's  named  a  radiator,  Jim, 

A  fancy  heatin'  scheme; 
A  'ristocrat's  base  burnerer 

'Cept  it's  he't  up  by  steam. 

Now,  w'at's  got  me  a-guessin',  kid, 

Is  how  old  Sant'  will  do 
Wen  he  bumps  up  ag'in'  a  shack 

Wit'  pipes  instead  o'  flue. 

Naw,    swells    ain't   got   no    chimblys,    pal 
Per  dat's  not  style,  ye  see, 


122 


THE     HANDICAP     OF     RICHES  123 

An'  how  dem  poor  rich  kids'll  git 
Deir  gifts  is  puzzlin'  me. 

Dis  s'pose  ole  Sant'  did  go  thoo  pipes 

'Bout  all  dat  he  could  take 
Would  be  a  string  o'  wieniewursts 

Er  artificial  snake. 

Jim,    dat   ain't   square   w'en    guys    like    us 

Got  chimblys  in  our  house 
Wat  lets  de  ole  saint  scramble  down 

As  quiet  as  a  mouse. 

Still,  I  ixpect  he'll  find  a  way 

To  reach  de  rich  kids,  too, 
An'  I  ain't  hopin'  dat  he  won't; 

I  ain't  dat  mean — are  you? 


AN  EARLY  AUTUMN  LULLABY 

SUMMAH'S  gone  a-glimmahin' 
An'  de  Fall-time's  in  de  breeze; 
Hush,  ma  little  'possum-lubbin'  babe! 
De  'simmons  am  a-waitin'  fo'  de  f ros' 

To  hit  de  trees; 

Hush,  ma  little  'possum-lubbin'  babe! 
De  'possum  am  a-skimmin'  out  to  fin' 

A  place  to  hide, 
De  bobolink's  gone  southwahd 

To  wintah  wif  his  bride, 
De  whole  creation's  singin' 

An'  yo'  mammy's  satisfied— 
So,  hush,  ma  little  'possum-lubbin'  babe! 

De  no'th  wind  am  a-shahp'nin'  up 

To  pinch  ma  baby's  toes; 
Hush,  ma  little  'possum-lubbin'  babe! 


124 


AN  EARLY  AUTUMN  LULLABY          125 

Yo'  daddy  am  a-splittin'  wood 

To  buy  his  baby  clo'es; 
Hush,  ma  little  'possum-lubbin'  babe! 
De  turkey  gobblah's  struttin'  'roun' 

An'  showin'  off  his  pride, 
De  punkin's  got  so  fleshy 

Dat  he's  layin'  on  his  side, 
De  worl'  am  full  ob  music 

An'  yo'  mammy's  satisfied — 
So,  hush,  ma  little  'possum-lubbin'  babe! 


THE   PLUGGER 

THEY  call  him  just  simply 
The  Plugger, 

An  old  horse,  worn,  clumsy  and  gray, 
He  drags  an  old  wagon  marked  "Transfer" 
From  dawn  till  the  close  of  the  day. 

He  hasn't  a  charm  you  would  speak  of, 
His  hair  has  the  thickness  of  wool; 

Just  one  thing  they  say  of  The  Plugger— 
He's  there  on  the  long,  steady  pull! 

The  high-headed  colts  leave  him  trailing 
And  give  him  the  dust  of  the  road, 

But  when  they  are  drooping  and  weary 
Old  Plugger  goes  by  with  his  load. 


126 


T  H  E     P  L  U  G  G  E  R  127 

So  take  your  life's  lesson  from  Plugger, 

Of  logic  his  story  is  full; 
Don't  spend  all  your  strength 
in  the  morning— 

The  evening  load's  hardest  to  pull! 


AUTUMN  ON  THE  TOWPATH 


rr^HE  sun,  athwart  the  willow's 

•••  Latticed  limbs, 

Jewels  the  water,  tints  the  leaves  ashore; 
The  wind,  sweet  singer 

Of  a  thousand  hymns, 
Low  chants  the  lyrics  of  a  thousand  more. 


A  haze,  November's  garb  of  filmy  gray, 
Hangs  spectre-like, 

Above  yon  Fairview  hill. 
Now,  but  for  waters  rippling  on  their  way, 
My  world  this  morning  is  a  world  a-still. 

The  sycamores,  white-bodied  giants  born 
To  save  the  forests  from  a  Stygian  fate, 


128 


130        AUTUMN   ON   THE   TOWPATH 

Seem  somber  now- 
Grim  woodland  kings  forlorn 
Beside  the  dogwood's  brilliant  robes  of  state. 

The  path  is  strewn 

With  leaves  of  countless  hues, 
Countless  indeed  as  are  the  years  that  span 
The  distant  time  since  first 

The  frosts  and  dews 
Made  Autumn's  pageant  glorious  to  man. 

The  silence  breaks! 

Adown  the  towpath's  way 
Children  pursue 

Youth's  fabled  Forty  Thieves! 
Behind  the  trees 

They  seek  their  fancied  prey 
And  search  for  footprints 

In  the  fallen  leaves. 


AUTUMN   ON   THE   TOWPATH        131 

Ah,  children  dear,  'tis  you, 

Not  I,  that's  thief. 

Though  thief  you  call  me 

In  your  childish  play; 

You  robbed  me  of  a  daydream- 
Sweet,  but  brief— 

And  lured  my  Autumn  reverie  away! 


IN  THE  BACK-  LEAGUE 

THINGS  are  doing  on  the  Common, 
Down  the  alley,  up  the  street; 
There's  a  Tyrus  Cobb  expression 

Worn  by  every  kid  you  meet. 
There  is  talk  of  "rotten  empires," 

Talk  of  games  both  lost  and  won, 
All  proclaiming  that  the  season 

In  the  Back-Lot  League's  begun! 

Mother's  ball  of  twine  is  missing, 

Store  string  saved  since  early  fall, 
But  she  knows  it  now  is  serving 

As  her  Back-Lot  Leaguer's  ball. 
In  the  yard  she  finds  old  broom  ends, 

Mop  ends,  hoes  and  things  like  that, 
Proof  to  her  that  once  good  handles 

Rival  now  the  store-bought  bat. 


132 


134    IN     THE    BACK-LOT    LEAGUE 

In  the  evening  on  the  corner, 

Where  the  arc  light  casts  its  rays, 
Future  diamond  kings   sit  "fanning," 

Talking  over  scores  and  plays. 
Just  one  problem  proves  perplexing, 

One  that  makes  the  pitcher  pout: 
"Why — dis   'cause   his    Dad's    a    copper- 

Dassen't  no  one  strike  Red  out?" 


fellow  who  has  power 

Abounding  in  his  heart 
With  which  to  stop  your  sighing 

And  give  the  smiles  a  start; 
That  fellow  who  says  "Howdy," 

When  "Howdy's"  what  you  need 
To  slow  you  down  and  make  you 

Forget  the  Grind  of  Greed; 
That  fellow  has  within  him 

A  soul  that  I  contend 
Comes  mighty  near  to  being 

The  synonym  of  friend. 

That  fellow,  you  may  notice, 

Will  pause  to  pat  a  nag, 

Or  bind  a  dog's  abrasions 

With   handkerchief   or   rag. 


135 


336  THATFELLOW 

You'll  see  him  lead  a  blind  man 

Across  the  crowded  street, 
Then  slip  some  wreck  a  nickel 

And  help  him  to  his  feet. 
You'll  hear  he  smokes  and  cusses, 

Drinks  sometimes,   too,   they'll   say, 
And  yet  he's  always  bright'ning 

Some  other  fellow's  way. 

That  fellow — well,  his  culture 

May  not  be  up  to  form, 
But  in  his  calloused  handclasp 

There's  something  good  and  warm. 
He  seems,  somehow,  to  blossom 

Where  weeds  of  sorrow  grow, 
Though  mighty  little  Bible 

He'd  ever  boast  to  know. 
And  if  the  watchful  angels, 

Who  bless  that  heart  of  his, 
Were  asked:    "Is  he  a  Christian?" 

I'm  sure  they'd  say:   "He  is!" 


THE  OLD  TRACK  GANG 


just  an  ould  photograph, 

Faded  an'  yellow, 
Long  treasured  in  somebody's  Album, 

Oi  know, 
But  from  it  came  mimories, 

Sacred   an'   mellow, 
Thot  gave  me  back  fr'inds 

Av  a  glad  long  ago. 

It  brought  to  me  moind 

Th'  ould  thrack  gang,  begorra, 
Thim  b'ys  as  well  knew 

How  a  rail  should  be  laid; 
Thim  lads  as  could  work 

All  to-noight  an'  to-morrow, 
Thin    spit   on    their   hands 

An'  go  livel  a  grade. 


138 


THE     OLD     TRACK     GANG         139 

Though  humble  an'  poor, 

They  were  min,   let  me  tell  ye, 
Wid  gintlemen's  proide 

In  their  sinew  an'  bone; 
Their  hearts  were   as   babes 

If  a  sorrow  befell  ye, 
But  pity  they'd  none 

For  a  blackgyard  or  drone. 

Down  there  on  th'  thrack 

Wid  their  shovels  an'  gauges, 
Their  picks  an'  their  crowbars 

Av  hefty  desoign, 
Ye    heard    not    a    word 

About    History's  pages, 
But:    "Squint  at  that  rail,  lads, 

An'  git  it  in  loine." 

Shure  they  had  no  derricks 
Or  fancy  invintions 


140         THE     OLD     TRACK     GANG 

For  liftin'  the  rails 

From    th'    top    av    th'    car; 
They  used  Oirish  muscle 

Av    Trojan    diminsions 
An'    tumbled    thim    off 

Wid  th'  aid  av  a  bar. 

They  tamped  ties  an'  laughed 

Av  their  own  youthful  glory 
Whin    they    wint    a-sparkin' 

On    Erin's    ould    sod; 
They  paused  now  an'  thin 

For  th'  joke  av  a  shtory 
An'    pitied    poor    divils 

Thot    carried  th'    hod. 

At  noon,  whin  th'  boss 

Sounded  truce  for  an  hour, 
Their    dinnerpails    filled 

Iv'ry    innermost    nade; 


Thin,    p'aceful    an'     calm 

As  a  midsummer  shower, 
They  smoked  their  dudeens 

In  th'  cool  av  th'  shade. 


But  thim  was  th'  ould  days- 
Days  sacred  an'  mellow- 
Whin  thrack-layin'  shkill 

Was  a  virtue,  begob, 


THE      OLD      TRACK      GANG 
So  take  off  yer  hat  to  ould  ganius, 

Young  fellow— 
Thim  b'ys  could  build  railroad— 

An'  loaf  on  th'  job ! 


THE   WATER    CURE 

T?VERY  human  bein'  livin', 

^^          I  suppose,  some  time  or  other 

Feels  a  kind  of  vagrant  impulse 

To  go   seekin'   pastures  new; 
You  grow  tired  of  work  an'  worry, 

Long  for  other  scenes  an'  faces 
'Way  off  where  th'  world  is  gayer 

An'  th'  skies  a  brighter  blue. 
But  I've  cured  myself  of  havin' 

All  those  wild,  unsettled  longin's 
An'  th'  antidote  is  simple- 
Simple,  sweet  an'  free  from  pain. 
I  just  light  my  pipe  an'  wander 

Down  along  th'  quiet  river, 
Climb  a  stump  an'  voice  my  gladness 

In  this  made-by-me  refrain : 

143 


144  THE    WATER    CURE 

I   would   rather  be   a   ripple 
On  an  Indiana  river 
Than  a  cloudburst  in  Sahara 
Where  they  celebrate  a  rain! 

There  I  sit  an'  watch  th'  water 

As  it  rambles  to'rd  th'  ocean, 
Kind  o'  holdin'  back  an'  wishin' 

Thar  it  didn't  have  to  go, 
While  th'  ripples  seem  to  anchor 

'Long  th'  shore  among  th'  grasses, 
Glad  to  be  in  Indiana 

An'  to  cease  their  restless  flow. 
An'  I  let  my  fancies  figure 

That  th'  shore-bound  ripples  really 
Come  to  port  to  seek  contentment 

An'  escape  Th'  Ragin'  Main. 
Then  I  just  grow  glad  all  over 

That  I'm  Hoosier-born  an'  happy 


146  THE     WATER     CURE 

An'  have  got  a  home  to  go  to 

Where  my  heart  can  chant  this  strain 

I  would  rather  be  a  ripple 
On  an  Indiana  river 
Than  a  cloudburst  in  Sahara 
Where  they  celebrate  a  rain! 


THE  GIRLS  OF  FIVE-MINUTES- 
TO-EIGHT 

The  old  corner  clock  was  in  gossipy  mood, 

And  so,  in  a  spirit  of  jest, 
I  asked  it,  of  all  the  girls  that  it  knew, 

Which  ones  it  thought  dearest  and  best. 

"Just  give  me  the  Girls  of  Five-minutes-to- 
eight," 

The  street  clock  was  quick  to  reply. 
"The  happiest  moments  of  all  in  the  day 

Are  when  they  go  fluttering  by. 

"In  laughing  battalions  they  hurry  along 
To  office,  to  shop  and  to  school ; 

They  have  but  one  thought— to  get  there 

at  eight!— 
Their  day's  long  enough  as  a  rule. 


147 


148  THE  GIRLS  OF  FIVE-MINUTES-TO-EIGHT 

"I  glory  to  see  them  in  ginghams  and  lawns, 

In  bonnets  of  dainty  design; 
I  smile  when  they  call  me  their  dear  Father 
Time, 

Which  makes  them  all  daughters  of  mine. 

"They're    business    girls — yes,    and    happy 
ones,  too, 

They've  harnessed  no  masculine  mate; 
Not  one  of  them  wishes  to  wash  some  man's 

dishes— 
At  night — at  Five-minutes-to-eight!" 


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